Scratches
by thenightsonfire
Summary: Spoiler free, even though Clockwork Princess inspired it. The scene should be occurring during Alec and Magnus' trip to Europe in City of Fallen Angels. One shot. Malec. If Alec's wound tasted as sweet as the scratches on his back, Magnus understands that he would bear it blindly. Because those scratches are what makes his existence a true life.


Disclaimer: I don't own the story and / or the beautiful, perfect characters created by the mind of Cassandra Clare. If I did, be sure Magnus Bane (along with Jace Wayland and Will Herondale) would wake up in _my_ bed.

All tied up.

* * *

Scratches.

Magnus Bane had been alive for so long that, sometimes, he wondered how he had not got bored with it yet. How could he wake up every day, knowing that it would not be the last, that it would _never_ be the last - that he would wake up again and again and again? Knowing deep inside of him how thin was the line between life and existence – and how easy it was to overcome, and how difficult to move back. For entire centuries he had wondered how to tell – was he living or just existing? And what do you live for, he often asked himself, only if you exist? What _is_ the difference?

Lately, however, the answer had emerged before his eyes, clear, more clear, as clear as the blue, stunning eyes that had met not so long ago. And he had come to an end.

Existence was his eyes seeing, his heart pounding, his body standing up.

Life was instead Alec's eyes in his, his heart fiercely beating against the warlock's, under their skins – close, closer, through a patina of sweat, through their clothes, their too tight jeans – Life was their two bodies standing _together_, embraced, one next to each other.

Magnus Bane had understood that, if existence was the dead matter, life was the feeling that animated it.

Ah, feelings. Under the light of the early hours of the day – or the last of the afternoon? He had long stopped caring counting the time – Magnus opened his eyes just enough to see the sleeping figure of Alec beside him. He smiled. It didn't happen often to him to wake up before the Shadowhunter.

He decided to tire him more often from now on.

The chest of the Shadowhunter rose and fell rhythmically, his jaw was relaxed, his eyelids lowered into an expression of pure serenity.

Here was the difference. Existence was waking up, life was waking up _next to Alec._

Living was owning two hands to trace the lines of his face. Living was breathing to inhale his scent. Living was having a mouth just to taste his skin.

Many years before that morning, Magnus had resolved not to fall in love anymore – to put aside his feelings – especially with them, the Nephilim, beings invincible and still _mortal_ - because every life that had turned into death, every love that had turned into ash, had distanced him from life and got him closer to existence one step further.

But at that time Alec was not born yet.

_And Alec was life itself._

Looking at his black hair on the pillow, at the shadow that the soft light cast between his jaw and his shoulder, Magnus suddenly remembered the day when, to one of his old friend, he had said that _the first is the worst – _the first person you love dying. Then, he'd said, it becomes easier.

For a moment, just for a moment, he tried to imagine a life – no, a mere existence – without Alec. He tried to imagine him with wrinkles and white hair – and yet his blue eyes still beautiful and profound and brilliant as ever, while his last breath left his body and he, Magnus, took his hand, accompanying him on his last journey.

He had to stop though, feeling his life slipping away from him, and forced himself to cling to the present, to reality, to Alec – _Alec_ – alive and young and hot against him.

He got nearer to his lover, who muttered something in his sleep, slightly annoyed.

So many times he had faced such scenes, Magnus realized. So many losses. So much pain. So many lives that had slip away, and pieces of his own along with them.

After a while, you get used to it – to the sense of emptiness, lack, loneliness. After a while, pain slowly softens.

_And yet._

Magnus knew he had lied.

The first wound may be the one that hurts the most, but the others yet to come do not bleed less.

How much would Alec's wound bleed?

"Magnus," he murmured abruptly, rubbing his eyes.

The warlock tried to dispel the gloom away from him. "Good morning, princess."

"Princess?" Alec said, still groggy from sleep.

"It's a quote from an Italian movie, Alexander. _La vita è bella._ Your ignorance in this matter is destabilizing, love. We'll have to do something about it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Alec said, yawning. Finally he opened his eyes, and Magnus frowned. Vienna's sunlight made them look brighter than usual. "Is it sunrise already?"

"I'm hurt, Alexander. Can't you see it's me enlightening the world?"

The corners of the lips of Alec bent up. "That's the glitter."

Magnus laughed and bent over to the boy's face, combining their lips. He took his face in his hands, rolling over him, so that both could truly realize _they were still naked._

"Alec, love," Magnus whispered, moving his mouth on his lover's neck.

"Hmm?", the other said, firmly gripping Magnus' hair.

"Do you really feel so threatened to decide to pull out your sword, or are you just happy to have me by your side? Or, to be exact, over you?"

"Oh, by the Angel, Magnus."

"I swear to do not have evil intentions. Unless you're consenting, obviously."

"Magnus."

"I'm quite positive you were – last night at least. Far _more_ than consenting. That, or President Meow decided to refine its scratching on my back."

"Magnus."

The warlock pulled a little back, hands on either side of Alec's shoulders, so that he could see him better. Alec's breath was fast, his cheeks flushed, his eyes veiled by something that Magnus recognized as irritation, lust, and – although the Shadowhunter would never admit it – amusement.

"Yes, darling?" he said, innocently.

"Another word and the next scratches you'll ever have on your back will be President Meow's."

_How much would Alec's wound bleed?_

Magnus thought that he would bear the pain, if it had the same, bittersweet taste of those scratches.

* * *

So yes. Hi you!

First, I'm not a native English speaker and yes, this is the translation of a fanfiction I originally wrote in my language – Italian – and it is quite an experiment. Or a personal challenge – call it as you like. So, it there is any misspell, please tell me and I'll correct it. If there are too many, curse me and I'll cover myself in shame and delete this story, ahah.

Please review? I'll give you cookies. And a naked Magnus Bane.

Carmelita.


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